


The Crooked (The Cradle)

by deervsheadlights



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Space, Apathy, Gen, Good Samaritan Steve Rogers, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Sexual Slavery, Intergalactic Slave Trade, Past Violence, Pre-Slash, Psychological Trauma, Recovery, Selective Muteness, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:14:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23761399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deervsheadlights/pseuds/deervsheadlights
Summary: [...] If Steve had been someone else, he would've turned around, gathered the intel like he was supposed to, and left this damnable planet that was notorious for all sorts of criminal activity of which the booming slave trade was only one.But because Steve was who he was, he walked up to the trader and paid the price.—Or: Steve Rogers is the captain of a crew trying to impose law and order on a lawless galaxy. He sees another kind of injustice he can't ignore.
Relationships: Steve Rogers & Tony Stark, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 56
Kudos: 235





	The Crooked (The Cradle)

**Author's Note:**

> i'm not kidding you when i say i've spent thirteen consecutive hours writing this – and i'll probably come to edit it later, but i feel like me posting this is like the only natural conclusion to this writing frenzy.
> 
> as per the tags, there is some discussion of past non-con/sexual slavery/non-con body mod. tony also propositions steve in a way that might make you uncomfortable if you generally don't handle this stuff well.
> 
> that said, it's nothing graphic and would all in all probably fall in the teen and up category, but i've decided to not rate it because of topics the fic discusses.
> 
> thank you for your patience and please enjoy the read!

He was tagged at 2500 Units. 

Steve knew it was too much. Steve knew if he did this, he'd never hear the end of it. Steve knew he'd come back to a crew that would a) have already noticed a large withdrawal having been made and b) look at their Captain with varying degrees of disapproval when they realized what for. 

Nat's eyes would narrow just slightly, and then she'd leave, wordlessly. Sam would maybe say, "Steve, have you thought this through at all?" and Sharon would cross her arms and matter-of-factly state all the negative ramifications that came with his spur-of-the-moment decision. Clint would watch the whole interaction take place and use the time to think of an inappropriate joke he would then throw in, but everyone would hear that he agreed with this just as much as the rest of them. (Not at all.) 

Steve was the Captain of this ship, though. He took pride in his democratic style of leadership, but at the end of the day, every choice was his to make. He held the reins and his crew, all of whom were there out of their own free will, knew he would steer them in the right direction because they trusted in his abilities as a leader. 

Sensible decision-making was one of these abilities. 

The considerable sum glaring back at him from the screen next to the force-field told him this was far from a sensible decision. It was the opposite thereof, it was the furthest from the word 'sensible' one could go. It was stupid, and impulsive, and ill-conceived. A good leader would take a step back, understand he was doing this out of misplaced sympathy, and go on his way. 

Steve had no interest in being just a good _leader_. Being a good leader and being a good man were two different things; leading meant making compromises, understanding when to accept defeat, pushing aside the veil of emotions. Steve would never be as objective in his decisions as someone in his position was expected to. There were other factors he couldn't leave out, emotional ones, moral ones, personal ones. Right now, his personal beliefs and understanding of morality told him he couldn't walk away. 

Steve knew part of it stemmed from the fact that the man was human.

There were dozens of other slaves on display in the invisible cages around him, all of them looking just as mistreated, malnourished and soulless. All of them with the same, hollow look in their eyes. All of them in need of a (stupid, impulsive, ill-conceived) act of kindness. All of them. But none of them human.

Maybe that said something about who Steve was, deep down. He didn't know. He just knew in all his time traveling through galaxies, he'd seen and fought many different horrors, but never this. Maybe it was an understandable reaction. Maybe it was normal, to be the most stricken with dread when you saw one of your own kind chained, beaten and sold to the highest bidder like an animal. 

Well, not exactly. The auction had happened the day before, as far as Steve was aware. Good slaves sold for numbers in the five-digit range or higher, not for a measly 2500 Units. These were the leftovers. The unwanted, the already used.

And this man with the bruises, the scars on his chest and the ornamental brand on the back of his neck was most definitely all of the above. Leftover, unwanted and used. Nobody would take him off the merchant's hands. Nobody had for a long time, as it seemed. 

Maybe they would kill him, when the cost of keeping the merchandise alive outweighed the return they would receive if they did manage to resell. Snap his neck or use him a final time for whatever they saw fit until his body gave up the fight on its own. Maybe there would be someone who'd take him, and it would be yet another someone who would do as they pleased with this nameless and beaten creature, because what was one more scar amongst countless others? 

Steve's jaw produced a cracking sound as he clenched it harder. The man continued to stare through him, unblinking, dark eyes glazed over. His shaggy hair and the stubble framing his sunken face were dark as well, but the color could've just been a different manifestation of the layers of dirt clinging to the rest of his boney frame, for all Steve knew. 

Even as Steve, almost on auto-pilot, kneeled in front of the forcefield to be on eye-level with the man, he didn't receive even the hint of a reaction. Maybe he wasn't really there. Could be he hadn't been in a long time. Steve had seen it before. Many who endured trauma to his degree for an extended period of time would crawl into a dark space in their mind never to be seen again. 

If Steve had been someone else, he'd have sent someone from his crew here to mingle with the scum that lurked around these parts. But he hadn't, not because he didn't trust them but because he didn't trust himself and the things he was capable of doing when those he cared about were hurt (especially under his orders). 

If Steve had been someone else right then, he would've turned around, gathered the intel like he was supposed to, and left this damnable planet that was notorious for all sorts of criminal activity of which the booming slave trade was only one. 

But because Steve was who he was, he walked up to the trader and paid the price. 

–

Steve returned to the _Deliverance_ with a sales contract, an ownership certificate (he had also received a leash, but disposed of it at the first possible opportunity) and another human being that barely passed as one anymore, and the reactions were as predicted. 

With the exception of Natasha, who did not walk away but remained firmly sat in place where she'd been playing cards with the others in the community room at the dead center of the ship.

"Are you out of your mind, Steve? I'm seriously asking. I'm _concerned_ about your mental well-being, because this," she said, pointing at the hunched-over figure lingering behind him, "this is too much, even for you."

Steve was about to open his mouth and argue, but Sam cut in. 

"You know this isn't gonna work, right? I get you're doing this out of the goodness of your heart, man, but we have work to do. Nobody here has the time to watch this guy or, I don't know, play shrink."

Anger rose up within him, but he didn't get to vent it because Sharon was next to voice her thoughts. They were having an intervention now, apparently. 

"If nobody's going to say it, I will. He's a liability, Steve. We don't know what's going on in there," she tapped her own temple to clarify, "but the fact that you found him in this place speaks for itself. We don't know what's been done to him and what that has made him capable of doing. It's dangerous."

Steve was all too aware of his upper lip twitching and his eyes narrowing. _Fine._

Fine. So he would, he would have him in the spare room and keep the door sealed. Or get the cuffs for his– _Stop_.

Steve's intention had been to free this man. Not take him prisoner in this ship. The only people that were prisoners on the _Deliverance_ were outlaws. Criminals, like the trader who was now richer for the 2500 Units that Steve had willingly paid him – no lawful body had jurisdiction in these parts. Here was a legal limbo, and the worst of the worst made use of it. 

The man that stood behind him, curled in on himself as much as was humanly possible while standing and angled away from the people in the room, attempting to make himself imperceptible, like he could disappear if he tried hard enough? That man wasn't a threat to be locked away. He was a victim. 

Steve didn't get to say as much, because Clint piped up where he was sitting, feet propped up on the table in front of him.

"Seriously though, there's no way you didn't think all this through before you bought him. Are you sure this isn't just happening because you've been lonely and miserable ever since Sharon dumped your a–" 

That was the last, _last_ straw. 

"Whatever the _fuck_ you're insinuating right now, I'd advise you to drop it, Barton," Steve barked, feeling his hands curl into fists at his sides. He needed to calm down. He was being unreasonable. The rest of their concerns was real and intelligible. He needed to– scream. "And the rest of you better get used to the idea of having him around _real_ damn fast, because I've decided, as _Captain_ of this whole operation, that we–" 

Natasha, who had been lounging in her chair, unimpressed by his outburst, was tensing up now. 

"Steve–" 

" _What?!"_

Steve noticed his crew's attention wasn't actually on him, their gazes focused on a place behind him a little to the left. Everyone had gone awfully quiet as soon as he'd started yelling, and now, in this sudden moment of silence, the noises were unmistakable. 

He turned around and found the subject of their heated argument shaking, one hand pressed to his mouth to muffle his labored breath and keep what had to be sobs from escaping. At Steve's sudden movement, he flinched violently, but otherwise didn't move. The trembling intensified, and he lowered his head further still, as if to ask for– for mercy, or to appease him, to wordlessly apologize for having interrupted their discussion. 

Oh, God. 

For a moment, pinpricks of doubt made themselves present in Steve's mind. Maybe they had been right, and there was nothing he could do here, and this man couldn't or didn't even want to be saved.

Maybe he wanted to die, and Steve had foiled his plans. But then again, someone who yearned for death didn't shake like a leaf when they thought they were faced with it. Or, again, _maybe,_ he still wanted salvation but was conditioned to respond to anger like this, considering all the violence that had evidently come his way. 

There were too many possibilities. Steve couldn't entertain all of them, thoroughly mull them over in his head, even if he wanted. (He didn't.) 

So instead, he inhaled deeply, waiting for his pulse to slow. The man's stench stung in his nose, and Steve knew the first order after this would be to help him to a shower; he didn't want to think about when he'd last gotten one. 

"He stays," Steve said, addressing the others who hadn't moved an inch. His voice was calm but resolute. The crew still wouldn't like his decision any more because of it, but they'd respect him for it. A good leader didn't have to raise his voice to show authority.

"End of discussion." 

–

If the first day hadn't already been proven to be a disaster, it sure would've been once he tried to get the newest occupant of the _Deliverance_ cleaned up. 

The ship was rather large for one used in active combat, and they had an extensive water filtration system that sufficed to provide a crew of up to ten people with the liquid gold.

Steve had shown him to the shower rooms – not before removing all the sharp objects around, just to be safe – explained all that was of importance, and helped the man to everything save for a razor: hygiene products, towels and a spare set of casual clothes (one of his own, because he currently wasn't inclined to ask for Clint’s which would be a better fit). 

Then, Steve had left him to his own devices, of course posting himself outside the door. It was both to ensure nobody would disturb him and so he wouldn't get any ideas to go on a tour around the ship. Not that Steve really thought the latter was even on the table. 

Steve waited in silence for twenty minutes before he checked on the man. He entered the room, fully prepared to avert his eyes and not invade this person's (who probably had forgotten the meaning of the word) privacy any further, and found him standing just where Steve had left him in the middle of the room. 

Previously, the man had wanted to follow him back out of the showers, and Steve had said, "No, no. You stay here, and I'll be waiting outside, alright?"

His impassive expression had shown confusion to such a minimal degree that Steve still wasn't sure whether he'd imagined it, but he had left it at that and exited the showers. 

And now, here they were, twenty minutes later and nothing had changed. Steve couldn't suppress a sigh, frustrated. He hadn't been clear enough – maybe the man needed definite instructions. As far as Steve could tell from all his subtle reactions, he was able to listen and understand just fine, so this had to be the root of the problem. 

"Look, if you're not comfortable with me, I'll go, but you need to get rid of these rags and take…" 

Steve trailed off and could only watch in both horror and bewilderment as this man, who'd given the impression of a statue just a moment ago, scrambled to tear off the poor excuses of pants and shirt that the merchant had him put in before he'd been handed over to Steve, the paying customer. 

He was naked, now, and his bare and battered form sunk to the bright white floor in front of Steve's feet, making for a contrast that looked so wrong and disturbing it had bile rise to his mouth. 

That wasn't the worst of it, however.

The man lifted his head and looked at him, maybe for the first time. Steve felt his breath catch at the sight; there was nothing in these eyes except a shadow of resignation, but it was dull and barely there. He hadn't just embraced his fate, he was long past considering it such. He existed, and that was that. 

And he existed to serve, as much was made apparent when the man lifted a hand, curled it into a fist and flicked his wrist in a gesture that was widely known as indicative of a particular sexual favor in a variety of cultures. And when Steve only stared, dark apprehension building in waves, both of the man's hands came together to form another gesture of similar nature. 

It was a question, non-verbal and practiced. What did Steve want? Clearly, he was a sad, sad man who'd purchased him because he wanted a pin cushion, but how did he want it? Did he want it this way, or that way, or–

What Steve _wanted_ was to throw up his last meal. 

"Oh, God," Steve heaved, the thought that had been looping in his mind over and over for so long and was now finally making it to the surface. _Oh God._ He didn't believe in a God anymore, not with everything he'd seen and was seeing, but the thought was knee-jerk. _Dear God, what did you let them do to him?_

It wasn't as if he hadn't known. The trade wasn't so rampant here simply because a bought body meant workforce that was free of charge but for the purchase price, but because said body was typically fit to be repurposed when needed. That was if their only purpose wasn't just this in the first place. 

It was a widely known fact. 

Still, witnessing proof of that knowledge so up close and personal had Steve taking a hasty step back, one that almost made him fall over himself in his rush. He was shaking his head, left and right and left again, and had to focus on it to make it stop. Finally, he drew in a lungful of air and addressed the man on the floor. 

"No. That isn't– I will never ask this of you. Nobody on this ship will, for that matter. I know you don't believe me, but I stand by my word. It's like I told you on the way here. I meant everything I said. The reason you're here is because I wanted to get you out of that place, and that hasn't changed."

He didn't believe Steve, that much was evident as he remained kneeling on the floor, staring as if he could peel back Steve's outer layer and see what was really going on in his brain if he did it long enough. It was unsettling. 

Steve shook himself out of it. He needed to focus and take back control of this situation, because this wasn't working. There was only one problem at a time he could address, and right now, that problem was the man's hygiene. The horrible extents of the abuse he'd suffered would come much, much later. 

"Listen. The only thing I want you to do right now is clean yourself up, take as long as you want within reason, get dressed and then come outside. I'll be waiting to show you to your quarters," he instructed, trying for a reassuring smile that came out more like a grimace. 

In a moment, the man was on his feet, although he seemed to struggle to get up and swayed a little once he did. Steve could see his eyes darting in his direction, as if he needed to gauge his reaction to the display of weakness, and then quickly turn his head to approach one of the shower stalls. 

This time, Steve waited no longer than a little over five minutes. 

The man's hair was dark brown. 

–

After they had taken off and finally left the planet behind, Steve brought him food. 

Conserved, like all the food aboard the ship, but fairly tasty and inspired by dishes of human origin. Personally, Steve enjoyed the mashed potatoes, but the meat wasn't too bad; almost tasted like real beef, which Steve remembered because he'd been one of the last ones to grow up on Earth and not in the colonies. 

Once again, the man only ate once explicitly instructed to. 

Part of the conditioning, Steve assumed. He wasn't allowed anything unless he was told; maybe he'd been played with that way, shown kindness, been given things, and punished every time he had acted according to what he'd believed was an unspoken invitation. That pattern had been repeated until he'd learned – and learned he had. 

It sure was a way to break a man. Everything could be a tool to rearrange someone's mind, personality and behavior, long as you poked and prodded in the right ways. At some point, all the corners would be sanded down, rubbed squeaky clean, and you'd be left with an empty husk of a person whose behaviors were learned and therefore foreseeable. 

It was uncomplicated and practical. Some found glee in it. (It was sickening.) 

Steve pushed the plate closer to where the man was sitting on the bed, urging him to take more than the two bites he'd taken. He didn't expect him to finish it, but the guy was little more than skin and bones and needed to eat – Steve'd seen it, closer than he'd ever wished for, the sharp jut of hip bones, the coves of his ribcage, prominent collar bones and frail wrists. 

And even though he looked like a gust of wind could blow him over and maybe snap his neck on impact, Steve wasn't about to be deluded by that physical attribute. Even after all that had been done to this man in body and mind, he was still here. He had fought. Endured. Survived. 

Steve clung to that glimmer of hope, even as the food remained uneaten, the man curled back up on the other side of the bed, and the silence grew deafening. 

–

He never spoke. 

Steve didn't know why that was, could only evaluate the information he was given and weigh the likelihood of different scenarios against one another. 

They hadn't cut his tongue out. Many traders did it, and not always because one of their goods had stepped out of line and needed to be punished; some of them did it out of principle. Their merchandise speaking without permission and ruining a deal wasn't something they had to worry about after the fact. 

There wasn't anything to indicate he didn't know _how_ to. It came down to, as with so many other things, a learnt unwillingness to. He chose not to speak because it had always done him more good than bad. 

Steve brought him to the common area after a few days. The intel they'd received back on the planet pointed to the whereabouts of an infamous ring of arms smugglers, and they'd be traveling for a while to reach the location. (Steve despised the cruel irony of how they were leaving a place known for the worst of crimes to chase down another.) 

"Are you sure he isn't braindead?" Clint asked through a spoonful of cereal that he claimed tasted like cardboard but ate anyway. He eyed their new passenger across the table, nose wrinkling. 

Sam, a few seats to his right, shot him a dirty look. "That isn't funny, Clint." 

Steve ignored them both in favor of greeting Nat, who came striding in that moment in pajamas and a bedhead. There wasn't such a thing as night and day in the void of space, but most of them had similar sleep cycles. 

"Any changes on that front?" she asked, nodding at the still nameless man who hadn't moved an inch ever since Steve had him sit down at the table. 

Steve sighed and crossed his arms over his chest. His crumbling resolve had to shine through more than he liked, because Natasha went to pat his shoulder in what could almost be considered a reassuring manner. 

"What are you doing? With him, I mean." 

He stiffened. Was she– implying what Clint had jokingly that first day? Did she really think her Captain that depraved, that he would–

"Relax, Steve. I'm asking, does he get any stimuli? Outside of the routine you built up? It's not going to be a cure-all, but if you find something that gets some kind of response out of him…" She shrugged, leaving the sentence unfinished. It was fitting, considering they had no way of knowing if it would change anything at all. 

Steve still felt grateful. For the suggestion, but also for the fact that at least parts of his crew seemed to come around and work with him on the matter. Nat didn't have many ways in which she showed that she _did_ care, but helpful insights and genuine advice was one. 

He tried a few things – everything that came to mind, honestly. 

Reading. Old-school board and card games. Contemporary games. Nat's crocheting kit. The interstellar mineral collection Sam prided himself on. Sharon's library of early 21st century music and noir films. Hell, even preparing food and cleaning the showers. 

Steve had just thrown his hands up and quit the whole endeavor altogether when he noticed it. 

They were sitting down for a meal in the room that still looked as sparse as the day it had first seen its new occupant – Steve had finished a while ago and left the other man to it while he'd began sketching. Retro, pencil and paper. He'd been called a grandpa by every crew member who'd caught him at least once. 

It was when he lifted his head the next time that he knew something was off, in the good way. Steve was about to encourage the man to eat more yet again (which he, incredibly, didn't do if not outright ordered to and Steve couldn't decide whether it was a good or bad sign) when he saw him looking. 

The shift in his gaze was minimal, but it was there. Subdued, underneath that layer of indifference Steve had thought impenetrable, shone interest in his eyes. They were slightly widened, making them appear even larger, and he was stretching his neck forward just a fraction so he'd be able to make out what Steve was doing a little better. 

The drawing wasn't finished, but Steve figured he could make an exception this one time and show it anyway. When he turned the sketchpad around, the man immediately zeroed in on what it was displaying – and released a barely audible gasp. 

"It's you," Steve provided, stating the obvious. 

Well, it wasn't a true-to-life depiction. The man in the drawing was healthier, his facial hair not as unkempt, and he had the trace of a smile curving his lips, but Steve filed it unter creative freedom. And, who knew? He could imagine it, so it could become true. Reality. One day, maybe. 

The man began to reach out to touch his counterpart on the paper, but jerked his arm back halfway through as if he just realized what he'd been doing. He was now frozen, his whole body rigid and shivering with terror. Steve noticed he was facing away, hands cradled to his chest, and it seemed like a strategic choice. If Steve were to beat him, he wouldn't get the face, and his hands could be able to come up for protection immediately. 

The response was instinctual, burned into his hindbrain after various prior experiences. Burned into him with the mark he carried, in the literal sense. 

Steve had never touched him. He'd made a point of speaking to him, showing him around the ship and generally spending every second with him that he wasn't with the crew polishing their plan for the coming mission – but he never allowed his fingers to so much as brush the man's arm. Even the small things seemed wrong when they concerned someone who was in a condition where consenting to anything was practically impossible. 

The shaking didn't stop. He just waited, enduring the torturous silence, dead quiet. Waited for the doomsday clock to hit 12, for the bomb to drop and Steve to strike. 

Steve did make a move, but not a violent one. He leaned forward in his chair ever so slowly – because the man couldn't see him but he'd be guaranteed to feel his presence closing in – and dropped the sheet of paper in his lap. 

The other's hands twitched where they were clutched to his chest. When nothing else happened for some endlessly long minutes, he dared to look down where the drawing now lay. Steve could see him intently focused on it, but he was probably still monitoring Steve's reaction out of his peripheral vision. 

He could feel himself holding his breath until the man's hand shot forward to clutch the paper, as if he had counted to ten and then made the decision to move all at once. 

That slip of paper didn't escape his white-knuckled grip for a whole day. 

–

The changes were small. Imperceptible, to anyone who didn't know what to look out for. Luckily, Steve did. 

It was a twitch of a brow that Steve could _swear_ was annoyance when he, for the third time, asked (not ordered) him to finish at least half of the food on his plate. It was a glint in his eyes when Clint made a comment he believed to be funny and Sam returned something dry and deadpan that got real laughs out of the crew. It was like a slow thaw, an unfreezing of the muscles in his face that made it possible to show emotion, and his movements turned cautious and calculated instead of nervous and rigid. 

Clint, albeit reluctantly, had spared two sets of his casual wear. The clothes far from fit, but they didn't hang off him in quite the same, miserable manner that Steve's did. His overall appearance improved and went from outright depressing to sympathy-inducing. 

That said, nothing changed in the grand scheme of things.

Steve had curbed his own impatience when he first became aware of it. He wasn't an impatient man by nature, and this especially was a matter where 'Haste makes waste' should be taken seriously. This man had been through things most of them struggled to imagine – hell, even the thought of that incident in the showers and all the things it insinuated kept Steve up at night. 

It wouldn't do to rush that recovery. In fact, he should be counting his lucky stars for every positive change. There was no telling whether there would be any more of them the next day; perhaps one day, they'd hit an invisible wall and the man would be stuck there, somewhere between his true self and the person he'd been molded into. 

Steve shook his head and locked the thought away. They were on a mission, they had a goal, and he needed to focus. The others were out there doing their part, and he was the Captain whose duty it was to hold up fort – or in this case, his ship. 

He was lucky to have redirected this attention to the matter at hand that very moment, because the proximity radar on the console showed another ship approaching at a speed that meant trouble. _Damn_.

He'd been in the firm belief his team had managed to infiltrate the smugglers' ship before they were able to send a distress call to any nearby allies – at least that had been what they'd reported. A wayward crewmember might've slipped through their fingers; it was known to happen, especially on ships that large. 

"I've got another one approaching at three o'clock. Taking the fight to him. Do another sweep of the ship, there's gotta be a stray out there." 

They ended up taking minimal damage, but it was fortunately a 'You should've seen the other guy' situation, so Steve considered the mission a success. This area fell into the governance of Xandar, and their ships appeared soon after Steve had established a connection and explained the situation. 

After everything – illegal weapons along with the smuggler crew – had been handed over to Xandarian authorities, the crew of the _Deliverance_ gathered in the common room to take care of minor injuries and celebrate the outcome of the operation. 

Steve bat Sharon's hand away when she tried to treat the cut at his temple. "It's a cut. Nothing to worry about," he said, because it wasn't. He'd gotten a little roughed up when the other ship's blasts struck, but the rest of his team had been those who had truly risked their lives. 

"It's a gash, Steve. You're supposed to at least cover it up," she returned, sighing when he got up anyway. 

There were many reasons they hadn't worked out, Steve's attitude toward his personal well-being one of them. Thankfully, the others had gone to lounge on the small cluster of sofas and armchairs in the adjoining room, invested in a heated discussion about this or that and not taking notice of their moment.

"And I will," he lied, in an attempt to appease her that he knew would fail because _she_ knew he was lying. "But I'm going to check on, uh–" He pointed a thumb over his shoulder. "–whatever his name is, first. I'll be back later." 

Steve turned and left the room before she could get the idea to argue. He'd wanted to get to the man first thing after he'd obliterated the other ship, but there had always been something else to take care of first. Now that he had the time, he wasn't going to wait around any longer. 

As soon as the door slid open, the man's head whipped around from where he was sitting on the bed, staring out the long, horizontal window into the void of space. There was a fresh bruise on his cheek. 

Steve frowned, and the man slinked back and away at this smallest hint of displeasure in his countenance. Biting back a curse, Steve schooled his features into a neutral expression, and sat down on the chair he'd long ago pulled up next to the bed. 

"Sorry. I wanted to check in with you sooner, but it didn't work. Pretty rough ride today, huh? Should we put something on that?" he asked, moving slowly as he pointed at the bright, red-purple splotch in his face. 

The man relaxed to a degree – in his book, relaxing meant looking like a deer in headlights instead of resorting to any of his other expressions, which had more in common with a deer awaiting its bloody death at a slaughterhouse.

Steve almost gaped when he, after a few beats, tilted his head minimally to the right and _squinted._

And then, Steve's mouth did actually fall open when he realized that the man was looking at the ~~gash~~ cut on his temple. Maybe it was worse than what was visible from the outside and Steve had gotten a concussion because this was– the next big step.

He might be hallucinating, or passed out. 

The man's expression was almost chiding,a little like he was saying 'You want to get _my bruise_ looked at while you're running around like this?`

Steve had an idea. A flash of genius, even.

"Okay, okay. Yeah, I forgot about that," he said, feeling a stubborn smile tugging at his mouth when the man's eyes narrowed further. "Would you look at it for me? Only if you wanted to. It's easier when someone else is doing the bandaging." 

When there came no answer, he feared he had taken a step too far. He thought it would be an appropriate trust exercise for both of them, allowing the other man to handle the task, at his own pace and in control of the situation, while Steve sat back and didn't move. But perhaps they weren't there yet, and now Steve had forced him in a position where he wanted to decline the request but was afraid of what would–

A nod. Small at first, but then determined, as if he'd gotten more confident of his answer halfway through. 

Steve scrambled to get the supplies.

He put down the antiseptic, butterfly clips and gauze pads next to him, and sat down on the bed. The wait until the man moved stretched into infinity, and Steve felt awkward enough he was tempted to ask whether he needed to explain anything, but the desire disappeared when there was sudden movement to his right. 

The man didn't take many overly courageous actions, but when he did, they were resolute. Like he had assessed the situation for all it was worth, determined every possible outcome and then made his move. It reminded Steve of himself, how he'd prepare for battle. Single-minded, calculating. Only Steve picked his battles, and this man fought them every day, constantly, with every motion made and every breath he took.

Everything was a battle when you didn't know which side anyone was on, but had learned that most didn't side with you. 

Steve remained completely motionless but sucked in a sharp breath when the disinfectant touched his wound. The man paused momentarily, and Steve urged him to continue. 

He worked with efficiency and deft fingers, his palms calloused and every motion precise. Maybe, Steve thought, some day long ago, he'd worked with his hands. A different kind of manual labor that had nothing to do with providing sexual favors or slaving away somewhere doing things nobody else wanted to. 

Maybe those delicate, diligent movements once worked to create and not to destroy, and that drive was the one thing they hadn't been able to strip from him. 

And then Steve came back to reality, because pondering these things wouldn't help him actually figure out who this man now was, in the present time, after everything that he had undergone. 

"Am I ever going to get your name?" 

There was no answer, only the soft click of the last butterfly clip as it was set in place. The fingers moved away from his temple and the last point of contact was gone. Well, it would've been too good to be true, anyway. 

"Another time, then."

The word 'surprised' didn't do Sharon's expression justice when she ran into him with the gash bandaged up. 

–

"Tell me, my Captain, how's your pet project coming along?" 

Clint couldn't let it be, could he? 

Steve sighed, looking up to meet his crewmates' grin with disapproval, which only caused him to wink and return to his own personal pet interest, the old-fashioned compound bow on the table in front of him. He'd been tinkering with it for the past half hour, claiming it wasn't balanced properly. Steve knew he was an impeccable shot, had seen it on the shooting range they'd set up in the ship's training room and had to admit there had to be something to it. 

"What is it with you?"

Nat flicked the nail file she'd been using a moment ago into Clint’s face, only narrowly missing his eye. A warning. 

Steve exhaled another weary breath as he watched them bicker, moving to sit down next to his still nameless companion. 

It wasn't like Clint didn't have a point, even though his wording left something to be desired.

Apparently, it was now an open secret that sometime during the past weeks, Steve had grown attached. He was an adult, he could admit that. He could also admit it was dangerous, seeing as for all that they had made great progress, the man he spent most of his time on the ship with was still far from what one considered stable. 

He was getting better, but nothing that had been done to him had been erased, and every time Steve got past one layer of damage, another one opened up before him, and it was even more severe and disturbing than the last. 

(Just yesterday, Steve had approached him with a pair of scissors – which he, in hindsight, understood wasn't that great of an idea – intent on getting some of the outgrown hair off until they could get him an actual haircut, and the man had been taken by terror immediately. His reaction had been so intense his scrambling on the bed had made him fall onto the floor, hit his head and then crawl away from Steve even as Steve had held up both hands in a placating gesture. The man likely hadn't been able to see him through the veil of tears, because he'd continued to wildly thrash his head as he shook it left and right and shuffled backwards until he collided with the wall, where he curled up and cried long after Steve'd left the room.) 

Steve had done a round of the ship to make sure no scissors were stored in any visible places. They didn't need another episode like that. 

At least the guy was eating his food for once. Might be the outburst had worn him out that he felt hungry enough to eat now. Not that Steve thought that made yesterday's occurrence any less horrifying, but he'd try and look on the bright side even if it wasn't all too bright over there, either. 

Steve turned to his own dinner in front of him and was about to start eating when Sam came barging in – really, he stayed at the entrance to the room, thrumming with nervous energy as he waved them over. 

"It's Fury."

Before he knew it, Steve'd jumped up and barreled past him, crossing the hallway in long strides toward the cockpit. The connection was still on when he arrived, and Fury's lip on the monitor twitched with the man's impression of a smile as Steve came into view on his side of things. 

"Captain. Long time no see. I've heard the _Deliverance_ has acquired a new crewmember?" 

God damnit, Sam. 

"I'll tell you all about it, Director. _After_ you tell me how he is," Steve responded through partially gritted teeth. Distantly, he was aware that the rest of his team was gathering around him, the air around the group seemingly getting thinner as the suspense rose. 

Finally, Fury said, "Why don't you ask him yourself?" 

The monitor went black, and then there was Bucky. Wrecked, tired, and one arm lighter than the last time Steve had seen him, but _alive._

"Can't get rid of me that easily, punk." 

Everyone sort of broke out in celebratory, relieved laughter after that, and Steve shouted a 'Don't I know it, jerk' at the Bucky on the screen through all the noise. He felt his eyes brimming with tears and couldn't give less of a damn. After almost losing his best friend to this cause that he sometimes doubted was the right one at all, he was allowed a moment of vulnerability. 

The entire crew chatted for a while, comfortable banter and jokes being thrown back and forth in-between the bouts of serious conversation, and bit by bit, the atmosphere calmed down into a relaxed one that was wholly different from the tension that had spread on the ship in the past few weeks.

They were exchanging goodbyes, the air of departure palpable, when Bucky said, "So, they say I'll be allowed back in action in a week. Got a fancy new arm and everything. I'm just wondering, am I supposed to take a cab and meet you halfway, or are you people picking me up?" 

The cab joke went over the others' heads (they had never been to Earth and the word in this meaning wasn't in their vernacular) but Steve threw his head back and laughed, grateful for the humor that Buck hadn't lost, even after what he'd been through. 

"We'll be there. Setting sail for SHIELD-SS right this moment," Steve responded, still chuckling quietly as he entered the familiar location data into the console. The ship shifted minimally as it adjusted its course. 

They said a final goodbye and ended the connection. Steve expected Fury to pop back up on the screen, but nothing of the sort happened. The man probably preferred for him to relay the story in person, which Steve couldn't complain about. 

Come to think of it – he'd left the poor man alone in the common room. Steve felt a twinge of guilt and an even greater one of concern as he made his way back. The feeling increased tenfold when he heard Clint’s voice emerge from the location he was approaching. 

"Hey! Are you– Did you mess with this? I swear, man. No, don't look at me like that. There was no one else around, I _know_ it was you. What did you–" 

Just as Steve entered the room and gauged the scene in front of him – Clint clutching his bow with both hands like it was something precious, the more-or-less stranger on the other side of the table, blinking at him – the voice came. 

"Be– bet. Better."

It sounded like you'd expect someone who hadn't spoken in years to sound like. The caricature of a human sound, raspy and broken and near inaudible. 

It sounded like music to Steve's ears. 

"Holy shit, was that his first word?" Clint gawked, open-mouthed, looking from the man down at his bow and up again. 

And then, he seemed to grasp the meaning of what had been said, because he paused in the movement. Slowly, he held his bow at an arm's length, inspecting it. Steve thought he saw the only difference in the arrow nook, where some sort of metal had been wrapped around it, but there was bound to be more. At least that's what Clint’s expression implied, and he was the expert. 

"How did you– you mean you made _this_ better? Because you heard me rant about how it didn't work properly?" 

A vigorous nod. 

They were back to non-verbal communication, as it seemed. 

Clint was off and down the side of the ship where the training room was. Steve heard a shout of triumph not long after, and felt his own heart leap with joy when he sat down and saw the man looking at his empty plate, clearly fighting a faint, satisfied smile.

"You haven't just made Clint really happy today. I hope you know that." 

–

Building. 

That's what it had been all along. 

The guy had liked Steve's drawings well enough – they were the first things that graced the walls of his otherwise empty room, even though he refused to put up the one sketch with his face on it – but other than that, he had made no move to draw or paint something out of his own accord. 

He watched Steve as he drew, studied the drawing in all its detail afterwards, and that was everything. It was a passive activity. 

The realization of what he had to do came to him right then, sitting there on his designated stool next to the bed. Later, Steve showed up with a box of puzzles, legos (Sam, for some reason, had bought them for a considerable sum and kept them as "antiques", reminders of old times) and various other things vaguely associated with the assembly and shaping of different materials.

The man instantly went for the colorful chunks of plastic. 

There was a certain artistry in the things he was constructing. Steve's artist's eye could definitely appreciate it. Even with legos, which obviously had their limitations, every creation was unique in its structure and well thought through.

One day, Steve found him scribbling away at a piece of paper, and halted right in the doorway, clutching onto the tray of food and water in his hands like it might support him while his heart beat out of his chest. The man looked up, noticing his presence, and didn't flinch or hunch over for what Steve believed might be the first time. 

That one incident had kicked off an avalanche, and the positive effects seemed to be snowballing. Steve set the tray down onto the desk and dragged a hand over his mouth to give himself time and rein in that broad, ear-to-ear smile he felt so tempted to let go. 

Then, his gaze fell onto the slip of paper the man had been drawing on, and the smile broke through despite his (half-hearted) attempts of curbing it. 

The drawing showed a one-armed, clawed robot. 

A few nights later, Steve dreamed of it. 

He dreamed of a place with tools and screens and a million other things his brain had conjured up but he didn't know what to do with anyway. In the dream, the man was sitting at the bottom of a large construction, which was revealed to be the robot; Steve had thought it would be smaller, but it was almost as tall as him. 

The robot beeped when it sensed his presence, and the man looked up from where he'd been leaning in to screw the outer plating of the construction back on. There was a grease stain on his cheek and a smile lit up his face as soon as he spotted Steve, warm and familiar and comfortable. He was safe, and he knew. 

He wasn't talking in the dream, either. Maybe because Steve's brain had too little information on how his voice sounded, or because he was used to the silence despite the fact that he longed to hear a word, _any_ word out of the man's mouth again. 

Steve basked in the way the man's aura exerted safety and comfort, his stance open yet assured and eyes alight with a mirth that had Steve's fingers itching for a pencil or a brush. He wanted to capture the moment for eternity, bring even the tiniest of details onto paper, so he could be reminded of the fragility and preciousness of this life for every day to come. 

Something shattered with a sound that didn't fit the scene, and the picture of the dream evaporated in front of him.

Steve shot upright in the fraction of a second, throwing the covers aside and jumping out of his bed. He was poised to attack, notwithstanding that they were floating on a spaceship with only six people aboard. 

Except the sixth was special, in a way, wasn't he? Special, as in, different. Not special as in 'Steve was smitten and it was becoming obvious'. No. That wasn't what he was. Those feelings were so far from appropriate just thinking about it felt wrong. There was no space for something like this during this man's recovery. 

Which didn't matter, because Steve didn't have those feelings, anyway. He– he was just intrigued. He was amazed by this man and the strength he employed, _was_ employing to come back from what he had endured. And he'd walked a long way, but a large part of the road lay still in front of them. This was only the beginning. 

As much became obvious when Steve followed another, more subdued clang into the kitchen, sneaking on the balls of his bare feet so as to not let anyone hear him in his approach. 

The kitchen was a mess. One that, for once, had not been left by the crew during their last dinnertime. In the dim light that illuminated the ship at night, it took Steve a moment to realize that the dark patches of _whatever the hell_ on the floor and counter were, in fact, ground coffee. 

Sharon and Sam were the only ones on the ship who'd regularly drink it. Many things made sense now. A memory of both of them complaining about the respective other's excessive coffee consumption on different occasions flashed in front of Steve's inner eye. 

Only that neither of them had been drinking all that coffee. 

Instead, Steve watched as their newest addition, the man that occupied his every other thought, dropped onto the floor and began wiping over the dark pools of synthetic coffee powder in a desperate bid to gather them all into one huge heap and somehow transfer them back into the large canister the rest of it was kept in. 

Steve couldn't even contemplate every aspect of the revelation – how long had this gone on? Why had nobody ever noticed? Where did the used mugs go? When had he started to feel an emotion as intense as _defiance_ that would allow him to do something like this, an act that part of him had to be convinced was condemnable? 

The thrill of a sudden, overbearing happiness washed over him and was promptly stomped out the very next moment. The man's head turned and he locked onto Steve, his gaze wide-eyed and wild as he looked up from where he was kneeling on the ground. It was the polar opposite of the look he'd gotten in his dream, and something warm and hopeful in Steve shriveled up and died when he was faced with it. 

Steve had to be a harrowing sight for him, something out of his darkest nightmares – or memories; he doubted this man had the need for nightmares – cloaked by the shadows of the dim light and towering above him while he was there on the floor, vulnerable and caught off guard doing something he believed he wasn't supposed to be doing (considering he'd chosen this particular time to have his coffee breaks). 

In the blink of an eye, he returned to what he'd been that very first day, laying himself at Steve's feet and offering his services. This time, he appeared to not even dare to do that – a quiet, choked sob echoed through the silence of the room as he folded over onto his front, curled into the smallest possible form (less attack surface) with his arms locked over his head. 

Steve did the only thing he could think to do, with the rage at faceless abusers coiling in his gut and the grief for this man constricting his airways. 

He sunk to his knees next to the man. The sobs grew more hysterical the closer he got, and Steve knew those were tears blurring his own vision. 

A moment of hesitation preceded his next movement. There were a million possible ways in which this could go wrong. Maybe he'd make it all the worse for it, and all the progress they had made would be fore nothing. Maybe he would never recover. 

Or maybe it would work. 

Steve pulled him up by his shoulders and into an embrace.

As he'd predicted, the sounds of sorrow only grew louder and more distraught, peaking in volume when the man tried to break away and Steve tightened the hold of his arms to forcibly keep him from struggling. 

In the corridor, voices and footsteps emerged. Steve sent them away with a fleeting gesture and a shake of his head. 

The cries didn't abate, but after a while, the body in his arms stilled. First in defeat. Then, he tensed again, and his sobs suddenly went as if they were a record put on hold. 

The quiet was too loud. 

Steve held his breath. 

The cries continued, but the man in his arms slumped against his chest in what Steve could only define as relief, face burying into him. His tears soaked Steve's shirt. They weren't ones of desperation but rather alleviation, and the pitch of his sobs turned bright and high like he'd been waiting to let them see the light of day (the emptiness of space) for years. He probably had.

A switch had been flicked. It was almost tangible in the air. The fear had made way for timid understanding that tore down the last remaining barrier. 

Fingers suddenly curled into the back of Steve's shirt, clawing, and the next sob that he heard was his own. 

_You're safe. You're safe. You're safe._ (Steve thought he'd only been thinking it, but he caught himself mumbling the words over and over into the man's hair.) 

They sat in this embrace for what could as well have been hours. Steve was positive if they'd been back on Earth, by the time they moved for the next time, the dark of night would've made room for the light of day. As it was, though, the rare, passing bodies of light cast the room in the same, ominous glow – time was a construct that didn't exist here. Everything was always and never. 

He moved first. 

Steve loosened his vice-like grip the moment he noticed, and watched in awe-struck wonder as the man leaned away, just the smallest amount, to meet his eyes. 

His brown eyes were puffy, watery and almost black in the darkness. He put his hand on Steve's, which was hanging uselessly by his side, and pulled it up to lay over his thundering heart.

His determined gaze never wavered. 

"Tony," ~~the man~~ Tony said. 

**Author's Note:**

> i really loved writing this and would like to hear your thoughts!


End file.
